


Wizards and the Mirror of Emulation

by Holland



Series: Wizards [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Book One, Chamber of Secrets, Gen, Hogwarts, Joden Odenfeller, Venus Sting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 05:11:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10550630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holland/pseuds/Holland
Summary: Liam Clark has seen the extent of crazy and has had to redefine his definition of “ordinary” - especially when he was told that wizards really exist - however, nothing has baffled him more than seeing another boy through a mirror, a boy named Ron Weasley who claims he knows nothing about the legend of the Boy Who Lived. That’s not the only strange thing this year. Not only is a murderer hunting Liam down, but he finds himself a little more intimidated by a girl with bushy brown hair than by the monster that is lurking around the school corridors ... But what has confused him the most is his relationship to a boy he has never seen in the twelve years he’s lived, a boy named Harry Potter ... the other Boy Who Lived.





	

CHAPTER ONE  
_A Fickle Fashion of Freedom_

* * *

 

 

**THE BOY WHO LIVED AGAIN!**

  
_The well-known legend of the Boy Who Lived is a kind we have known for years. The tale of how an infant child survived a lethal curse and was sequentially separated from his parents stands as a factor that shaped the world we live in today, but it appears we need to add an additional chapter to this story. Little Liam Clark’s return to the wizard world has been a blend of surprises as he both narrowly avoids kicking the bucket — again — and welcomes his parents home. Yes, you read right! Thomas and Angela Clark, two of Wizard Britain’s most iconic heroes of the Wizarding War aside their son, have risen from the dead!_

_Not only did October 31, 1981 mark the day of the Dark Lord’s demise, or of the origin of the Boy Who Lived, but also the curious disappearance of the Clarks. For the most of eleven years the world thought them dead, with the other minority believing they somehow survived throughout. The story of their son is not very different. His separation from them had him spend those eleven years growing up in a Muggle foster home, away from the wizard world as though he had dropped off the face of the earth. He was also reportedly unaware that he possessed magical abilities, presumably for his own safety._

_The missing feature of the Clark’s disappearance story is that they had been abducted by none other than Ronan Droge, the late ex-Minister of Magic. Droge was apparently an agent of the Dark Lord who had been tasked to murder the Boy Who Lived to herald his master’s return to power. A few months ago, anyone accusing Droge of upholding such a title would have been deemed mad. The ex-Minister took a liking to Liam Clark upon learning that he would be returning to the wizarding world to take his place at Hogan School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. No one questioned why._

_The school’s Potionsmaster, Professor Varius Vane, had thankfully unravelled the mystery of Droge’s agenda at Hogan in due time. He released the Clarks from captivity and managed to subdue Droge before reuniting the family. Droge, however, murdered himself before the Ministry could apprehend him, leaving behind a horrifyingly proud proclamation that the Dark Lord would return in a vain of no remorse — which may keep conspiracist awake for the time being. All that aside, it is thanks to Vane that the Clarks will be returning to their manor reunited as a family after eleven years of separation._

_The ex-Minister’s betrayal has raised many eyebrows about the numerous unnecessary actions he enforced at the Ministry in the past year. The most publicised of these events being his accusing Winter Williams and Enos Lavery for illegally trafficking dangerous beasts into Britain. He also accused them of establishing illegal commerce within Wizard Britain whereby they could illicitly exchange the beasts for incredibly high prices. Williams, the former Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and Lavery, one of his most loyal employees, were suspended from their duties to attend trial and were subsequently sacked from their jobs._

_Due to recent events, the case has been reopened and both Williams and Lavery have an opportunity to prove to the Wizengamot that they have no association with the smuggling of a fully-grown Thunderbird and a rogue Nudu, which are both currently detained in a sustainably habitual faction in the department. The Ministry, who continue to investigate the alleged trafficking of a Lethifold by Lavery, wonder if perhaps Droge’s proclamation of this is false as well, therefore rendering their efforts to track the dangerous beast unnecessary. The case of Droge’s betrayal also raises eyes to the open seat in the Ministry. Who will assume the role of Minister of Magic?_

_Pundits nod their heads to Joden Odenfeller, who recently retired from his post at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Many are awaiting a response from both Prime Minister Eric Cornel and Odenfeller himself, but they have since remained quiet about the ordeal. Odenfeller is a stranger to high positions, having turned down the offer to be the head of Magical Law Enforcement. The esteemed retiree is famously known for the apprehension of one of the most sadistic murderers in all of wizard Britain: the Rogue Ripper. For this act, Odenfeller received the Order of Merlin, First Class and was donned, alike the Clarks, a hero of the Wizarding War._

_The Rogue Ripper, otherwise known as Venus Sting, murdered and tortured hundreds during the War, spreading a reign of terror as a devoted follower of the Dark Lord. The former Auror singlehandedly took him down and stopped his heinous tenure. Odenfeller announced his retirement three days ago after several good years of service for the Ministry. Many would agree that Odenfeller is the best fit for Minister of Magic, not only for his charitable nature and duty to protect wizard Britain, but for his strong friendship with Prime Minister Cornel. This union reeks of promise as the two have worked in harmony in the past._

 

It was usually quiet after a big case had closed. If they didn’t have other business to attend to, wizards and witches would be left in the silence of an uneventful day, idly tossed about the office much like the condition of the place itself. Fiddick found that silence was a terrible way to relax. He likely endured enough noise as an Auror to ever find it tranquil again. Nested humbly in his chair with the _Daily Prophet_ spread out across his lap, the tune of an exploding card deck was a more likeable means of relaxation. It made it easier for him to read the _Prophet_.

The paper brewed a blend of feelings for Fiddick. He did not know whether to believe it or not. On one hand he could revel the return of the family who saved many lives but also realise that a man he knew to be loyal and trusting was not at all loyal and trusting as he thought. On the other hand he could choose to be ignorant of what the _Prophet_ claimed and remain living with what he knew until proven otherwise: that the Clarks were gone and that Droge was good. 

However, remaining attached to one’s originally perceived character when other sources told him they were wrong bore its own consequences, and Fiddick knew it well. But exactly how much of it could he believe? Droge was a man many trusted with their lives. People were honoured if he even lay eyes on them.

  
“Do you believe anything the _Prophet’s_ said?” Fiddick curiously asked two others, a wizard and a witch whose names were Taggart and Mallister respectively. They sat a table away inactively engaged in an everlasting game of Exploding Snap. “About the Clarks’ returning and that Droge — of all people — was an agent of the Dark Lord?”

  
Neither Taggart nor Mallister had half a mind to speak immediately. They waited for their card deck to discharge with streams of smoke and a _bang_ before Taggart answered without turning to face Fiddick.

  
“I dunno,” said Taggart tardily, slapping down a card. “I won’t believe either account until I see it both with my own eyes.”

  
“I can believe the return of the Clarks, but Droge?” said Mallister, who whacked the deck with a card of her own. “Though, I very much knew there was something fishy about the Lavery-Williams case. They’re not the kind to traffic beasts into Britain.”

  
Another wizard whisked into the office with an air of excitement. He had no duty to clean the office, only to dirty it more, dumping a collection of tankards on the table where Mallister and Taggart were hosting their game.

  
“Evening, lads!” said the wizard brightly, who nodded out of courtesy to the witch and said, “Ms Mallister.”

  
The two wizards and the witch awoke almost immediately from their tedious states when their eyes set on the sight of butterbeer.

  
“Eddie Benning,” said Mallister. She seized a tankard and held it to her lips. “Butterbeer’s a nice way to charm a lady.”

  
“It’s also seems to be the way to a wizard’s heart,” said the third wizard, Benning, with a grin. He spared a glance at Taggart, who had gulped half his tankard down already. “You better like it. It was a tad difficult sneaking this past the Prime Minister. Been wafting about, Cornel. I suppose he’s trying to collect himself after finding a man he trusted had betrayed him. A little unsettling, isn’t it? Who’d have thought Droge was a follower of the Dark Lord?”

  
“So you believe it, then?” Fiddick questioned Benning, holding up the paper. “You believe everything the _Prophet’s_ said?”

  
“’Course I believe it, it’s all true,” proclaimed Benning assertively. “My nephew’s finished his fourth year at Hogan, he saw the whole thing. All the students did, right to when the nut proclaimed the Dark Lord would return.”

  
“They didn’t see him kill himself, surely?” asked Mallister, concerned.

  
“No, Professor McDonald cast a charm to shield their eyes from seeing the ordeal,” explained Benning. He seized his own tankard and took a swig. “Would have been a bit bizarre if she hadn’t.”

  
“Sharp woman still, McDonald,” said Fiddick grinning as he, too, seized a tankard. “After all these years. She was always on my case about doing well in Transfiguration.”

  
“And you still can’t turn a rat into a goblet,” laughed Mallister. “It’s a wonder you became an Auror at all.”

  
“Who do you think Cornel will replace Droge with?” asked Taggart, who was silent until this point.

  
“Who else?” asked Benning matter-of-factly, as though it were a stupid question to ask. “Odenfeller.”

  
“Odenfeller’s not a bad option but he’s still a much needed force in Law Enforcement,” said Taggart. There was a note in his voice that he tried to conceal, a sour, almost whinny note.

  
“You just can’t bear the thought of having to change partners, Taggart,” said Benning teasingly. “Hang in there, dear friend. You know what they say: if you love something, let it go.”

  
“You’re not funny, Benning,” said Taggart pointedly. “You’ve got the Watchman as a partner. Kirsch is married to his job. You won’t be changing till death do you part.”

  
“Unlucky you don’t have Kirsch then,” said Benning; teasing seemed to be a game he played well. Benning’s grin grew as he took another swig from his tankard.

  
A second wizard strolled into the office, significantly more assertive and with the actual purpose of cleaning part of it. He walked straight to the neatest desk in the area.

  
“Speak of the devil,” said Fiddick. He held up his tankard as if to honour the wizard. “Ex-Auror, future Minister. Take a Butterbeer and settle down won’t you, Odenfeller? Tell us all about your thoughts on being Minister before the press gets ahold of you.”

  
“Do you really think I won’t be able to avoid the press?” asked the wizard, Odenfeller. He was smiling, almost chuckling. “Retirement doesn’t mean I’ve lost my skills.”

  
“No, just that you’re closer to being a pensioner than the rest of us,” said Taggart loudly for the first time that day. The two other wizards and Mallister laughed, praising Taggart with a pat on the back.

  
“Taggart, with my status I’m sure I’d be the benefactor for your own pension,” said Odenfeller in return, and their accomplices laughed even louder (except at Taggart this time).

  
“No need to flash about your old money, Joden,” said Benning. He shook Taggart by his shoulder and said, “The boy’s suffered enough knowing he won’t hear your voice again.”

  
“He’s still mad about me leaving?” Odenfeller asked. He turned to Taggart showing no hint of sympathy, only a clear smile torn across his face. “As much as I would like to console you for your loss, Taggart, I just have to say: you’ll never find another Auror better than me.”

  
“Thank you, Joden, I feel so much better,” said Taggart sarcastically.

  
Odenfeller laughed.

  
“I will miss the scorning, though.”

  
“Who better to mock you than Baruch Taggart?” said Taggart. “You’ll cry within a day of leaving me.”

  
“I think you mean _you_ will cry within a day of me leaving you,” corrected Odenfeller. “I can see the tears welling up in your eyes now.”

  
“What I will miss is the married couple and their arguments,” said Fiddick, looking between Taggart and Odenfeller. “What a wonderful reunion we will never see so often again.”

  
They preserved this in a brief, silent moment.

  
“You excited about your party, Joden?” asked Mallister, seemingly more excited for an ordeal meant for Odenfeller.

  
“You really don’t need to exert yourselves on a leaving celebration,” said Odenfeller. “I don’t fancy them. Merlin knows my family’s had me suffer through enough balls in my childhood. Besides, you know I dislike celebrating when there’s still so much bad in the world. I’ve always disapproved of Droge’s actions but I agree with him on one thing. The Dark Lord still lives and wizard Britain cannot rest while this remains true.”

  
“Stop being a visionary for the world and recognise how much you’ve done for it already, Odenfeller,” said Fiddick. “You’re still young and you’re one of the most well-known names in all of wizard Britain. Your family’s insanely rich, you could have retired the moment you were born yet you fought bravely until the end. You didn’t have to become an Auror, let alone help in the war itself but you did. I can’t stress enough how much that screams esteemed Minister to me.”

  
There was a mild smile on Odenfeller’s face to establish his appreciation for their praise, but it did nothing against the graceless raising of his shoulders, which expressed only that he was more disturbed about the matter than anything else.

  
“Speaking of which,” said Benning with less tease and more purpose, “Cornel wanted to see you, Joden.”

  
Odenfeller looked up at Benning.

  
“Thank you for that, Eddie,” said Odenfeller. “Cheers.”

  
He smiled at his friends, giving Mallister an extra nod, and left for the Prime Minister’s office.

  
To the workers in the Ministry, Odenfeller was perhaps the last remaining charitable person from a wealthy Wizarding family there was left, and he had no right to be according to his own name. The Odenfellers were notoriously Pureblood supremacists, with the exception of himself. He was adamant in his duty to oppose the tradition of spiting those born of Muggle parents, so much so that he had joined the war as an ally of the rebellion while his own kin supported the reign of the Dark Lord.

  
It was for this reason that Odenfeller found himself in the headlines dubbed one of the “Heroes of the War”, shaping him not only as one of the wealthiest but also as one of the most well-known Wizarding personalities in Britain. So, it came to no shock that the numerous warm greetings he got from the workers was his reason for arriving at the Prime Minister’s office a few minutes later than he wanted.

  
“Ah, Joden,” said Cornel. For today, the Prime Minister was the most pleased to be graced by Odenfeller; he smiled upon the ex-Auror’s arrival, which distracted him momentarily from an apparently urgent report. “Forgive me, I’m rather busy with all that’s going on.”

  
“No worries, Eric, I can only imagine,” said Odenfeller. His smile, in return, showed he very well understood the Prime Minister’s situation. “Have you found a replacement for Hogan’s Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, since Droge disposed of their last one?”

  
Cornel sighed.

  
“Many believe the role’s cursed, so you could imagine the amount of applications I’ve received,” said the Prime Minister, chuckling if only to forget about the stress that accompanied the thought. “But I have a few, though the likely applicant is Tom Wigan. Professor Glumberry likes him particularly. Better than any of the others and I don’t disagree. Wigan’s highly qualified for the job and eager to do it.”

  
There was a slight change in Odenfeller’s expression, a line of contention striking his eyes.  
“I think you need to review what makes a qualified Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Eric,” said Odenfeller composedly. “Wigan is known to be a little reserved, do you really think he could handle school children?”

  
Cornel continued with his work, either to show he disagreed with the way the conversation was going or that he thought there was more to be said for Odenfeller’s case.

  
“He also possesses remarkable similarities to that of Newton Scamander who, might I remind you, was expelled from Hogan for endangering human life with beasts,” proclaimed Odenfeller. “Wigan may be good with beasts, but you can’t say he’s much of an expert on defending against the Dark Arts.”

  
Cornel laughed.

  
“My dear friend,” he began, a bit red in the face, “you and I have very different views on Tom Wigan. Reserved, yes but unlike Scamander, Wigan finished his education at Hogan and received an Outstanding in his Defence Against the Dark Arts NEWT, as well as countless other subjects.”

  
There was a silence only Cornel developed tension from, a glazed look in his eyes as though recalling the fragments of a long forgotten memory.

  
“Also, be very careful with what you say, dear friend,” said Cornel grimly. “You know it’s dangerous to speak of things that are not with us anymore.”

  
It was unclear whether they spoke of their concerns regarding Scamander, or of an entirely different matter altogether. However, this secret shared between the two managed to bring out an uncomfortable smile from Odenfeller, who quickly found another topic to talk about.

  
“Have you had any luck in finding a replacement for Minister?”

  
Cornel hesitated.

  
“I was hoping to see your application waiting on my desk,” said Cornel jokingly. He briefly smiled at Odenfeller, perhaps hopeful to see a sign that he would agree to it or at least considered it.

  
But Odenfeller laughed, again unnerved by the thought.

  
“I wouldn’t fare well, Eric. You know that,” said Odenfeller softly.

  
Cornel’s smile did not drop, but even the kindest of gestures did little justice against the slight look of disappointment on his face. Despite it, he scoffed and continued with his report.

  
“The _Prophet’s_ created a whirlwind of chaos,” said Cornel. “Have you read it’s recent article? It’s making people very sceptical about who I appoint as the new Minister. They won’t trust just anyone. Droge was generally regarded a kind and humble heart. People would have laughed had anyone said he was a follower of the Dark Lord. I can’t blame them ... I still find it troubling.”

  
The silence that followed after meant one of two things: that Odenfeller could not care less about these stressful moments of the Prime Minister or, given his relationship with Eric Cornel, that he cared so much he understood the importance of silence and its part in clearing the mind.

  
“Are you sure you don’t want the position?” asked Cornel almost desperately, looking at Odenfeller. Odenfeller took a deep breath in. “Look, I won’t force it on you, Joden. It’s the fact that the people trust you. They already elected you suitable. We could make a good team having been former partners and good friends.”

  
Odenfeller sighed.

  
“I’m sorry, Eric. It’s not in my interest to be in those stately high chairs,” said Odenfeller. Cornel’s disappointment was clear now. “But I do offer my hand should you ever need it. I’m not dying, Eric, just retiring.”

  
Though still disappointed, Cornel scoffed.

  
“Much appreciated, my friend,” said Cornel softly. “Let’s get off the topic ... I actually called you to hear how your visit to the confinement turned out yesterday.”

  
Odenfeller’s expression went blank, perhaps an attempt to maintain the tough reputation he embodied or perhaps a means of concealing a mysterious or fearful emotion. He was certainly troubled with the memory of this visit.

  
“Strangely easier than I thought it would be. He didn’t provoke me let alone speak, he just sat there,” said Odenfeller airily.

  
“Perhaps these eleven years have broken him?” asked Cornel hopefully. “It was bound to. A decade and then some on your lonesome?”

  
“It doesn’t feel right, though,” said Odenfeller insistently. For a brief moment, he kept silent as though he could not figure out what he meant himself. Cornel looked at him warily.

“There’s a bad feeling about it ...”

  
“How do you mean —”

  
Cornel and Odenfeller veered their heads to the opposite end of the office; someone had yelled outside. Numerous other commands were murmuring over each other from outside the door, accompanied by a series of muffled pops. In the moment that Cornel decided to investigate, a witch had entered looking worried. It was Macy Lerwick, the Prime Minister’s assistant.

  
“Sir ...” Ms Lerwick abruptly hesitated, seemingly wondering the effect her news may have on both the Prime Minister and Odenfeller. “Venus Sting has escaped from his confinement.”

Cornel and Odenfeller instinctively looked at each other, an expression of much shock and fear nailed to their faces. They stood. Cornel swept across the room in such quick succession it was unclear what he tried to do, but he seized his coat and Odenfeller’s arm and the two disappeared with a pop.

  
Moments later, travelling by boat and the rusty, steel cage of a lift, the Prime Minister and Odenfeller arrived in a formidable leaden dwelling, hollowed and cavernous, almost cavelike in comparison. The dank-poisoned air, powdered with thick dust, smelled densely of a repellent odour ... of decay. The unpleasant aroma skulked around Cornel and Odenfeller, haunting every step they took towards the battalion of Aurors ahead.

  
Cornel quickly approached the nearest witch, who had a quill and parchment floating just above her head as she busied herself by examining the stone floor.

  
“Royston, what happened?” asked Cornel urgently. “Give me every detail!”

  
The witch, Royston, got off her haunches and reported, “That guard, Quigley,” she pointed to a paled and baffled wizard shuddering near a few other Aurors some few feet away, “he came in not long ago for his shift only to find the last one dead on the floor.”

  
Cornel and Odenfeller turned to look at the frightened guard, Quigley, just as another set of Aurors heaved a body bag from the ground. They exchanged nervous looks as the bag was carried away, as if to try reassure themselves that this imposing scene was merely a fictive dream.

  
“He then went to check out Sting’s confinement and found his cell left open,” disclosed Royston anxiously, though doing a fine job in remaining calm. She led them to an even darker area of the cavelike den, fenced off by a set of rusting bars, which were now swung open. “He left us a message. Your typical Ripper.”

  
Royston nodded her head to an alarming image upon the far end of the cell. Crudely enough, it seemed to be written in a kind of red substance, darkening in some areas. Only due to lack of resources could Cornel and Odenfeller denote what it was; they both gagged at the thought:  


  
_A fickle fashion of freedom_

Royston was right, the message was a typical Sting thing to do, and neither Cornel nor Odenfeller appeared very comfortable about it. They both, though Odenfeller showed it the most, bore an expression of sheer horror and upmost shock. Neither believing exactly what they saw or that it was happening at all.

  
“H-how could Sting have escape?” asked Odenfeller, hardly processing the situation though his eyes were still fixed on the message on the wall. “The Kazaban Confinement offers no interaction with other cellmates, he could not have planned a collaborative breakout.”

  
“And none of the other cellmates, solitary or not, have escaped apart from him,” commented Cornel distantly. He turned away, mind lost in thought, perhaps running through all the possibilities.“He could not have done it himself; the cells are enchanted to prevent even an attempt to escape ... This could only have been possible if someone had let him out. But who?”

  
If there were a clue or hint that could solve at least a fraction of the situation, Cornel could not find it. Though, he still looked around in hope that he would.

  
“You didn’t see anyone else here when you visited Sting last night, did you, Joden?” Cornel questioned Odenfeller, his eyes elsewhere.

  
“I saw nobody,” said Odenfeller absentmindedly. For a moment, he internalised the shock until at last a sense of dawning fell upon his face. “Eric, I understand how this must look —”

  
“I know you, Joden,” said Cornel quickly, holding up his hand. His eyes raised to meet Odenfeller’s, inspiriting their capacity of trust as Odenfeller’s face filled with relief.

  
“Apologies, Mr Prime Minister.” Cornel turned his head away; the puzzled guard, Quigley, timidly approached him. “I believe there’s a misunderstanding. It would appear you both believe Mr Odenfeller was the convict’s last visitor ...”

  
“I _was_ the last visitor,” said Odenfeller. He stepped up to the guard.

  
“Perhaps the last _authorised_ visitor,” said Quigley softly.

  
Odenfeller stood, quite puzzled himself, and watched as the guard held out a piece of parchment to him. He looked at it momentarily, as though unsure what exactly the guard wanted him to do until he recognised what the parchment entailed and took it distractedly.

  
“I found it stuffed in one of the gaps of the cell wall, I think he may have tried to hide it,” explained Quigley.

  
It was a log of Sting’s visitors, a bare one and not very long, with Odenfeller’s name being the one appearing most — once years ago and the next that was at the very end ... except his name was not at the end, and Odenfeller could not believe who took his place.

  
“No ...” he uttered breathily. He blinked at the name unbelievingly until his eyes became unfocused, and Cornel snatched the parchment from Odenfeller’s grasp in all his curiosity.

  
Cornel sighed.

  
“Taggart,” whispered Cornel in disbelief. “We’ve been betrayed —”

  
“No!” hissed Odenfeller, sweeping up in front of Cornel in a fit of rage. “It cannot be! Not Taggart!”

  
“Joden, these logs are imbued with magic they cannot be cheated. You know that,” said Cornel sharply. Willing to contest but unfit to do so due to truth in that fact, Odenfeller melted away, shaking his head, spurning in his disbelief. “Taggart knows this too, that is perhaps why he intended to hide it — and I must say he did a terrible job for an Auror ...”

  
_“Taggart_ _would_ _not_ _do_ _this!”_ yelled Odenfeller fiercely, head shaking in rage. He appeared to be trying a great deal of convincing without having convinced himself first. Nonetheless, he still tried. “He knows how punishing the Sting case was for me, how much it impacted me! He is my _partner_ , he will not betray me —”

  
“He _was_ your partner,” said Cornel blankly.

  
Cornel found discomfort from his interjection but for the moment, as Prime Minister, he could not consider his friend’s despair above his duties to protect the Wizarding world. Therefore, he turned away to the other wizards and witches and announced loudly, “Royston! Kirsch! Apprehend Baruch Taggart and send him for interrogation immediately! I will be there shortly.”

  
As Royston and a wizard named Kirsch disappeared behind the caged lift, Cornel found Odenfeller’s discomfort more bothering than he thought possible. He faced his friend again, torn about his grief and hating having to enforce authority when a friend was in need of support. Nonetheless, he continued to speak based on his duties than on what Odenfeller probably wanted to hear.

  
“Sting has little advantage,” announced Cornel, again addressing the rest of the Aurors. “The entirety of Wizard Britain will be on high alert for a man who cannot walk in broad daylight without risking apprehension.”

  
Finally, when he looked at Odenfeller again, Cornel found a balance between duty and empathy and said, “It seems, dear friend, that we have both been disillusioned by men we thought we could trust with our lives. You’re retired, I can’t expect you to help, but rest assured I will get to the bottom of this. However, at this moment we can only be sure of one thing: Venus Sting has escaped. The Rogue Ripper is back on the streets.” 


End file.
